I only really get into Christmas starting tomorrow

December 1st. Every year, that's the day when I start acting like it's Christmas time.

Not before. Not a single day before then will I do anything Christmas-related unless forced to, such as purchasing and setting up our Christmas tree. My wife and children often coerce me into doing that.

But in my own form of protest against the now-insanely-long holiday season, I will not voluntarily sing a Christmas carol, eat a Christmas cookie, buy/wrap a present or otherwise acknowledge that it's Christmas before the first day of December.

Christmas is 25 full days into the month. Isn't that enough time to celebrate and prepare? Twenty-five days? I say it is. Why do we have to make it longer? To me that cheapens the magic of the season. Christmas is CHRISTMAS: The Granddaddy of Holidays. It doesn't need any help from us in for the form of October decorations or early-November shopping sprees.

So come midnight tonight, I will gladly take the road before us and sing a chorus or two of whatever Christmas song you'd like. But not before. Not a minute before. Tempt me all you want with holiday treats and my favorite Christmas tunes at 10:30 p.m., but I won't pay any attention. Two hours later? I'll gorge myself and sing at the top of my lungs with you.

Deal?

Deal.

One unfortunate side effect of full-time work is feeling disconnected from the day-to-day reality of your home

We are a single-income family. I go to work five (sometimes six) days a week, while my wife Terry stays home and runs the house. This is no small feat, considering that seven of us live there, but she does it well.

Or at least I assume she does it well, because I am rarely a witness to the daily operations of our household. I leave for work at 7 a.m. and am usually not home until somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m. In between, there's a whole bunch of stuff that happens without any input from me whatsoever.

Well, except the money. The money I earn funds the operation. But that's OK because I like it that way. As I always say, I am in charge of Accounts Receivable. My wife – who pays the bills and manages monetary outlays – has complete jurisdiction over Accounts Payable. This system works for me.

But on those days when I happen to be off or working from home, I get a glimpse into how one goes about helping to manage the lives of two college students, two high schoolers and a middle schooler. Terry is constantly running to and fro, packing lunches, helping with homework, reminding kids to do this assignment or practice that piece of music for band.

She spends much of her days driving to various schools to drop off forgotten soccer socks and misplaced trumpets. She runs errands and cleans the house. She serves as the Uniform Mom for the high school band, a never-ending job that requires gobs and gobs of hours and effort. 

She goes to daytime school events, emails teachers when there are issues to be addressed, and takes kids to various doctor and dentist appointments.

It's like this day after day after day after day.

And all the while I get only a glimpse into it. I hear about what's going on through hurried texts and quick afternoon check-in phone calls.

A typical conversation between Terry and me goes like this:

ME: So how was your day?

TERRY: <proceeds to rattle off 147 different things she did involving the kids>

ME: You did all that? Today?

TERRY: Yes.

ME: This Melanie person you mention. That's our ninth-grader, right?

And so on.

Don't get me wrong, this approach to life is a good one for us. Or at least it is to me, as I'm not the one having to serve as cook, maid, chauffeur and administrative assistant for six other people with crazy schedules. But I think Terry is OK with it, too.

It's just that all of these things happen without my knowing it, which makes me feel a bit disconnected from the reality. It's as if the family lives a separate life that I get to participate in for only a few short hours every night and on weekends.

Speaking of my family, if you see them, tell them I said hello. I miss them. And I'm fairly sure I know all of their names, too.

The challenge of Thanksgiving when you've just lost weight

So I've been regularly attending Weight Watchers meetings the last several Saturdays in an attempt to get back to (and stay around) my goal weight of 185 pounds.

After losing a great deal of body tonnage a couple of years ago and getting down as low as 172, then ballooning back up into the high 190s, I decided that 185 was probably a comfortable target for me.

Well, actually, Terry and I both decided it would be a good target for me. I value her opinion on matters like this, and she knows I can be wishy-washy when it comes to setting health goals. So she chimed in with a quick and firm "185" when I asked her back in September what number I should aim for on the scale.

So 185 it is, then. I finally reached that goal weight a couple of weeks ago. Yay for me.

Now that I'm back to it, I would of course like to stay there. Which isn't really that difficult most of the year but gets a bit harder over the holidays.

Those holidays, as I'm sure you're aware, include Thanksgiving. The idea of Thanksgiving is to show your gratitude for everything you have by eating unhealthy amounts of turkey and stuffing and putting yourself into a food coma. I'm not sure what the connection is there, but that's the way we Americans do it.

Yet I don't want to do it. Eat a lot, that is. I want to stay somewhere near my daily targeted allotment of Weight Watchers points. That's an awfully big challenge when a table full of calorie-laden goodies is staring you in the face and everyone is saying, "Hey, it's Thanksgiving! You don't have to eat so healthy every day. Splurge for once!"

For most people, that's sound logic. But not for me. I no longer splurge. I cannot splurge. I do not have sufficient self-control to indulge one day and shift easily back into calorie cutting the next.

If I give in and eat whatever I want tomorrow, I'll do it again on Friday. And again on Saturday. And probably Sunday. Then I'll just figure, well, I'm not cut out for this Weight Watchers thing so I think I'll just quit and HEY, PASS THE CAKE!

That's how I am. I know myself. And I also know that it's really not that difficult for me to limit my food intake, even when we're talking about Thanksgiving or just a trip to a nice restaurant. All I have to do it try a little and I'm fine.

Yet dinner spreads like the one I'll face tomorrow still scare me. I never want to compare my situation to that of an alcoholic, but it's the same principle: I cannot have just one big meal. There's no such thing as one big meal for me. I must constantly maintain a healthy diet if I want to maintain a healthy body.

So tomorrow I'll have a little turkey, a small scoop of mashed potatoes, some yams and a maybe a bit of stuffing. I'll eat it slowly and allow it to fill me up, and I'll be satisfied.

And Friday morning my pants will still fit and I'll feel great. I won't feel as if I denied myself and will look forward to my Saturday morning weigh-in at Weight Watchers.

A healthy life is a happy life, folks, at least for me.

So if you DID have it all to do over again...would you?

I've made some good decisions in my life, but sometimes I can't decide whether they were actually good decisions or just so-so decisions that, with a lot of divine assistance, turned out well.

Either way, my life is pretty darn good. For all the things I tend to take for granted and the blessings to which I'm oblivious, I can at least say I'm good at being grateful.

But let's suppose you had a one-time-only offer to go back and redo up to three things in your life. First, would you take advantage of the opportunity? And second, if so, what would those things be?

I don't really have much in the way of regrets, but if you were to open the time machine door and allow me to step in, here are the three items I would change if I could:

(1) I would have gotten a master's degree (at least) directly after my bachelor's
When I graduated from college in the spring of 1992, I was running on fumes. For months I had been going to school full time, working full time, and helping Terry plan what turned out to be a pretty decent-sized wedding. Graduation was a time when I could lift one of those weights off my shoulders, and I was grateful for it. My dad suggested I stay in school another couple of years and get a graduate degree. I said no thanks. In retrospect, Dad was right. I always figured there would be time later for a master's program. But here we are decades later and I'm still without that advanced degree. And probably will be for at least several more years, if not forever. I should have toughed it out.

(2) I would at least have seriously considered a career in academia
I love to learn. I love (and miss) the classroom environment. I love research. I love to obtain knowledge for the sake of obtaining knowledge. All of these seem like indications that a career spent as Dr. Scott Tennant, Professor of <FILL IN THE BLANK> may have been a good move. We'll never know now, but I think I could have thrived as a scholar. (Though hey, maybe someday?)

(3) I would have forced myself to become better at home repairs and handyman stuff
I know I'm still perfectly capable of learning these things, but I feel like you're more of a sponge for practical knowledge like this when you're younger. Maybe not? All I know is that I should have listened closer when my dad tried to teach me a lot of this. Once again, Dad was right (ARE MY CHILDREN NOTING THIS 'DAD WAS RIGHT' THING AS A RECURRING THEME?)

The legend of Johnny Flipperhands

(NOTE: Here's our Blog Rerun for November, as we once again bring back a blog post from the past and run it because I like it, and also because it saves me the trouble of having to write a new one. This one goes way back, at least relative to the age of this blog: It was first posted on December 12, 2011. Enjoy it...and stop staring at my tiny hands.)


"Johnny hands." That's what I've always called my hands, because they look like they should be attached to a little 5-foot-tall guy named Johnny.

Seriously, I have the smallest hands. They don't look like they should belong to someone my age and body size. It's even weirder because the rest of me is fairly proportional. Well, except for my head. My head is freakishly large. I don't know why, but I've always had a large noggin. And my feet, while reasonable in length (size 10 1/2), are quadruple-E in width. And in some models of shoes, 4E isn't even wide enough.

So that's me in a nutshell: Large head, small hands, fat feet. Picture Fred Flintstone. That's me.

I have always had small hands. But now that my kids are growing up, my tiny appendages have become almost embarrassing. My daughter Melanie is 11 years old. If we hold our hands up against each other, palm to palm, my fingers are MAYBE an eighth of an inch longer than hers. And Elissa, my petite little 17-year-old who has trouble making the minimum weight to give blood, has fingers that are clearly longer than mine.

Don't even get me started on Jared, our 13-year-old man-child. He is not only taller than me, but his fingers are longer than mine by a full knuckle. It's amazing. Where did I get these little digits? My dad had short fingers, but they were at least bulky. They had some width to them. Mine? They're the fingers of a third-grader, and I'm guessing they're not growing any time soon.

Actually, I think they're shrinking. I don't remember them ever being this tiny before. I just measured the nail on my pinky finger, and it's 3/8" across. Three-eighths of an inch! There's going to come a point when my fingernails will disappear altogether -- a process I have admittedly helped along because I chew them all the time.

Sometime in the next 5-10 years, I would say, my fingers themselves will just vanish. Then I'll be left with tiny flippers and no opposable thumbs, making even the most rudimentary tasks impossible. I'll need to hire a full-time assistant just to pick things up for me.

Yes, this is the fate that awaits me. Just call me Johnny Flipperhands – Master of the Large Head, Fat Feet and Tiny Mitts.

My doctor and the five love languages

It is often the case in marriage that the wife makes health care decisions not only for herself and for the children, but also for her husband. Some guys simply won't go to the doctor unless someone makes them go, and most of the time, the only person who can make a husband do anything is his wife.

That last part – about the wife's ability to make her husband do anything – is absolutely true for me. Life is easier if I just go along with whatever Terry says. Plus, if I'm being honest here, I'll tell you I'm also terrified of her.

But the part about guys not wanting to go to the doctor? Not me at all. This may sound strange, but I love going to the doctor. I'm not kidding, I look forward to it.

Part of the reason is because my primary care doc, Dr. Spech-Holderbaum, is wonderful. I really like her, and she takes the time to answer my questions.

More importantly, she also takes time to praise me when I put up good numbers. Like, for instance, if my weight and blood pressure are in the healthy range, she tells me what a good job I did.

I am a 46-year-old man. I should not be motivated by a pat on the head from my physician, but I am. I get giddy with anticipation when I know my vitals are good and I'm going to see Dr. Spech-Holderbaum soon.

This is because my love language is "Words of Affirmation." Are you hip to the whole love language thing? The concept comes from a 20-year-old book by relationship counselor Gary Oldman called "The Five Love Languages."

The idea, as I remember it, is that everyone has a particular love language; that is, a particular way of speaking or acting by their partner to which they respond best. (And I think everyone also has a secondary love language, but I'm not sure on that part.)

As I said, my primary love language is "Words of Affirmation," which is just what it sounds like. If you tell me I did a good job and offer up a few words of praise every once in a while, I will run through a brick wall for you. You'll have me hooked.

Other love languages are Gifts, Quality Time, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. Terry's love language is Acts of Service, as I'm reminded every time I sit down on the couch and she puts her feet in my lap so I can rub them.

Anyway, we were talking about my doctor. I have my annual physical scheduled for this Monday, and I'm genuinely excited to go. I'm anticipating some glowing feedback from Dr. Spech-Holderbaum. In fact, I'm not nearly as concerned about getting a gauge on my overall physical well-being as I am about hearing what a good and conscientious person I am.

It's sad, really.

What will the kids say about you when you're gone?

Here's a good thing to do every once in a while if you're a parent:

Stop for a second and imagine you're dead. (I know, I know. Work with me here.) Now picture your kids sitting around and talking about their memories of you. What will they say?

"Remember how he couldn't fix stuff except maybe computers? Man, he did not get the handyman gene AT ALL."

OK, fine, guilty.

"He told Dad Jokes. He didn't think they were Dad Jokes, but they were."

Yeah, sorry, but I really did think my jokes were funny.

"And he made up that toad song on the guitar."

This is true. I don't play the guitar, but I do know how to pluck out an E-minor arpeggio, which I play in the background over a short set of lyrics I wrote about a guy who meets a wise toad. I'm not kidding. It's a classic.

"When we were little, he used to wrestle with us. And he played those songs on the computer that we would dance to."

Do they remember all of that? I hope so. I sure do.

"Why did he get so mad when he played board games with us and we would knock the pieces over?"

BECAUSE IT WAS FRUSTRATING. I TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER, "DON'T KNOCK THE BOARD!" WHAT PART OF THAT DIDN'T YOU GET?

"I thought it was weird that he built those model rockets. It's like he used us as a cover. He just wanted to build and launch those rockets, and spending time with us was his excuse."

Inside every man is a 12-year-old boy. That 12-year-old boy manifests himself in different ways. In my case, it's launching model rockets into the sky and seeing if we can recover them. Oh, and also snickering any time anyone says the word "duty."

"He was a strange guy. But he loved us. I always knew he loved us."

Even if they don't say that, I hope they know it's true.

Anyway, while we're still alive, we should realize what influence we have over those future around-the-table conversations among our children. What you say and do now affects how they grow, how they think, and how they remember their upbringing. Not a bad thing to keep in mind.

It's Friday the 13th! Which means absolutely nothing

So I wrote the following short post about Friday the 13th and horoscopes, and then I went back and read it and thought it sounded patronizing and borderline rude.

Which really makes me the prototypical weenie perfectly suited to the politically correct 21st century, doesn't it? In our painstaking efforts not to offend anyone, we ultimately end up saying nothing. So I'll just let the post stand as is. But I'm wondering at what point I'll reach that "I don't care if this offends you" level of communication as I age. Because I'm really looking forward to that.

Then there's there: I dismiss those who believe in what I see as meaningless pagan superstitions and astrological psychobabble, yet every Sunday morning I go to church to worship an unseen God and remember a guy who said some profound things and was nailed to a tree for it 2,000 years ago. You could argue that I'm simply trading one superstition for another. I think you're wrong, but logically speaking, you could most certainly argue that.

I'll stop babbling. I just thought this one deserved a little context. Here's what I wrote:

____________________________________________________


I know you're a person with common sense, because you read this blog.

So I know the fact that today is Friday the 13th is meaningless to you. The date and day of the week have absolutely no effect on our individual fortunes, right? You know this, right?

Please tell me you do. And please tell me you don't read your horoscope and take it seriously. Please, please, please. I'll feel so much better about the world if I know you're not planning your life around someone's airy predictions based on your date of birth and the relative position of the sun or moon or stars or Pluto or whatever.

I just...I'd like to think we as a species have made some progress since the 15th century, and we know that stuff like this holds no water in terms of actually forecasting future events or understanding what each day holds in store for us.

Because if you do get nervous on Friday the 13th, I want to hug you in the most non-condescending way possible and say, "I have confidence in you. Really, I do. I know you know that none of this is real. Deep down, you know that to be true, right? Right? You're a bright and talented person. We need your help building a better society here in the fact-based world, so please come and join us."

I'll tell you what: If you do put stock in Friday the 13th and horoscopes and the possibility of the Cleveland Browns ever winning the Super Bowl, all I ask is that you just don't tell me, OK? Let's just pretend together that you don't think that way. I would greatly appreciate it.

I know you know this, but it bears repeating: There's no guarantee you'll be here tomorrow

A co-worker of mine passed away very unexpectedly recently. She was in her early 50s and had been having some health problems, but nothing that seemed to be life-threatening. Until it actually was.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

I know you're aware of this. And I know no one wants to walk around thinking about their own mortality all the time. That's now how we're supposed to live anyway.

But please understand there is nothing that says you're guaranteed a place on this earth tomorrow. Or even an hour from now.

Then understand what that means for how you should live. Tell people you love them, don't wait to work toward achieving your goals (whatever they are), don't allow a single day to be meaningless.

I don't want to sound like a cheesy motivational poster or anything, but right now the stark reality of this truth is hitting me hard.

It should probably hit all of us hard every once in a while.

The worst part about a dream vacation? Not being on vacation anymore

One year ago today, my family and I boarded a plane and took off for a week in sunny Orlando, Florida, during which we threw large wads of cash at various reprepsentatives of The Walt Disney Company, in exchange for which they provided us with highly fun and memorable experiences.

It was a good trade.

We had such a nice time on that vacation. It was great for the seven of us to spend a week together, though having only two hotel rooms (in the name of cost savings) was at times a bit challenging.

Then we came home to Cleveland and there was snow on the ground. It was awful. And it was cold. Also awful.

And now that we've reached the one-year anniversary of that vacation, my thoughts aren't, "What a great memory!" They're more along the lines of, "I want to be in Florida again. Right now. My existence is horrible."

Any time you travel, you have fun while you're actually there. But after you get back, all you have are (with apologies to Jim Croce) photographs and memories. Both are nice. But neither matches the experience of actually being there.

Which is a terrible attitude to take toward anything, I realize. There you have it, though.

If only I could escape your judgment and condemnation by escaping to Disney World...

How strange is it that I don't like getting a massage?

One of the great aspects of being me is that there aren't many things I don't like. I eat just about anything and will try almost any experience at least once, which means life tends to be pretty enjoyable. I just kind of go with the flow.

But there are some things I just can't get into. For example, I've mentioned here before that I'm not a big fan of walking around without a shirt on. Not sure why, it's just not my thing.

I'm also not much into being touched by non-family members. That sounds weird in so many ways, but what I mean is that, other than my wife and hugs/snuggles with the kids, I'm fine with you, ya know, not touching me.

Which was one of the things that made my "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire" experience so strange. The host, Meredith Vieira, was extremely nice, which is a good thing when you're dealing with nervous people sitting under bright lights answering trivia questions in front of an audience for the chance to win thousands of dollars. But she was also very touchy feely. Every comment was accompanied by a hand on your shoulder or a rubbing of your forearm.

When she asked me (several times) how I was doing, I wanted to say, "Fine, Meredith, fine. I'd be even better, in fact, if you could keep your hands to yourself."

But I didn't. You don't want to risk angering the host when someone is willing to write you a check for five figures.

It's not like it's a phobia for me or anything. I hug people to whom I'm not related all the time and it's fine. I'm just not looking for it to go any further than that.

Which brings us to the subject of getting a massage. My wife loves massages. She gets them from a very skilled friend of ours named Meghan.

Meghan, it turns out, is extremely good at what she does. She's a borderline miracle worker, as far as Terry is concerned.

So, knowing I can always use any sort of stress reliever, Terry very thoughtfully last Christmas got me a gift certificate good for one 1-hour massage from Meghan.

And I gave it right back to Terry and told her to use it.

This is nothing against Meghan, you understand. This is nothing against practitioners of massage therapy in general. They all provide a wonderful service. It's just not a service I'm interested in.

I realize I don't have to be naked to get a massage or anything, but that's not the point. I could be wearing a parka and snow pants and I'm still not interested in having you knead my flesh. Terry can do it to me, that's cool. Just not you. Or anyone else you know.

Is that weird? Am I just a freak about this? Maybe I am. I've had a massage before, years ago, and it felt nice. But I couldn't completely relax at any point during the experience because: (a) stranger, and (b) touching me.

So there you go. If you're looking to buy me something, a massage isn't the way to go. Nor is jellied ox tendon. I ate that when I went to China 10 years ago and didn't like it, either. Just trying to save you and me both some embarrassment.

You're welcome.

At some point I'll learn to be content whatever the circumstances...

...but until then I can only envy the Apostle Paul, whose words I appropriated for the title of this post.

This Is Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Winter:

"Oh man, it's cold! IT'S SO COLD! I hate living in Cleveland. The winters here are terrible. It doesn't matter how many layers I wear, these January runs are terrible. This is so stupid. Why don't I just join a gym and exercise inside? IT'S SO COLD! My fingers are numb. And I can't feel my face. There's snow blowing directly at me, and as usual that west wind only kicks up when I'm running west. Why does this happen to me? Why? Why me? IT'S SO COLD!"

And Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Summer:

"It's so hot. I can't believe how hot and humid it is at 5 o'clock in the morning. I'm going to be drenched in sweat by the time I finish, and no matter how long I wait to cool down, I'm still going to be sweating after I get out of the shower. IT'S SO HOT! We need to move to Canada. Like, somewhere in Northern Canada. Somewhere where it never gets above 65 degrees even in July. IT'S SO HOT! I hate running when it's this hot. I love running, but I can't stand running in the heat. My life is terrible."

And so I constantly have to remind myself:

I'm 46 years old today and not even I care

Well, I mean I care. Forty-six is an age signifying the undeniable fact that you're beginning the second half of your fifth decade of life. Another year or two and you will no longer be a mid-forties person. You'll be a late-forties person.

That's all significant.

But you reach a point in life when your birthday is mostly just an interesting time for reflection and taking stock and all of that. You're not looking for any presents, unless someone wants to give you three hours of uninterrupted time in which you're free to do anything you want, including watching a football or hockey game without having to worry about a sink full of dishes, a bathroom shower that needs cleaning, or any of the thousand other things that occupy your mind at most hours of the day.

Or at least that's what I want.

But really, other than maybe a few homemade cards from the kids and a Starbucks coffee that someone is nice enough to pick up for me, I'm good. Save the presents for Christmas, which in my case is always 53 days after my birthday.

I honestly don't mind getting older. I really don't. It's going to get more and more difficult as time goes on, I realize, but for now there's little difference for me being 46 from what it was like being 45 or 44 or any other year in my 40s.

I'm not the only one, right? It's not a "Bah! Humbug!" attitude toward birthdays as much as wondering why we, in American culture, put such an emphasis on them. Other than the aforementioned caffienated beverage and a slew of very nice well-wishes on my Facebook wall, I'm not seeing the need to celebrate here.

I continue my inevitable march toward Cranky Old Manhood regardless of what the calendar says.

The best thing you can do for me is to get out of my way. (AND GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU PUNK KIDS!)